


Enjolras & Grantaire Reborn

by VoidEntity999



Series: Enjolras: Reborn [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College, Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, M/M, college professor au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidEntity999/pseuds/VoidEntity999
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire are professors at an American university. One day, a couple of their students uncover a piece of their mysterious past....
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Enjolras: Reborn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665265
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Enjolras & Grantaire Reborn

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a second epilogue for my other fic, but it was so different, I decided to make it a series. It will still make sense if you haven't read the first part, but it probably won't be 100% what you're expecting. 
> 
> Not gonna lie, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to go *too* overboard with the OCs but like. Sir, this is my emotional support fanfic ;-; don't judge me...sometimes I just want to imagine what it would be like to have two gay dads who are college professors and also supernatural undead beings from Victorian times, is that weird??

"'[Modern art] has never meant, and does not mean now, anything like a break with the past. It may mean a devolution, an unraveling of tradition, but it also means its further evolution. Modernist art continues the past without gap or break.' 

"Art critic Clement Greenberg used these words to describe modern art, and similarly, all art, as a continuum, with abstract expressionism just one step in that journey. That's all for this week, so enjoy your weekend, and we'll continue on Monday with post painterly abstraction. For those of you who still haven't chosen a topic for your final report, please let me know as soon as possible."

The professor's voice was drowned out by the sound of papers and feet shuffling, laptops snapping shut, backpacks hastily zipped closed. As his students fled out of the lecture hall, he remained behind the podium, adjusting his rimmed glasses and pushing back a strand of dark curly hair before gathering his notes. 

"Professor Miles?" 

He glanced up past his spectacles to see the young woman, whose expression read as tingling with exciting news. "Yes, Rebecca?"

"I found an artist to do my report on," she continued, pulling out her phone. "Grantaire. He's British painter from the 19th century. It's interesting, actually, his work spreads over a series of movements, although some of it was destroyed."

Miles glanced over her phone's screen, which displayed a series of paintings on a Google image search. He gave a nod. "Excellent. Best of luck," he said, returning to packing his things into a satchel. 

Rebecca stayed for a minute, clutching the straps to her Jansport. By now, the classroom was empty. "I thought you might know about him, since you're British. You're from England, right?"

He glanced up calmly. "I'm familiar with his work."

"Okay," she answered breathing a sigh of relief. "So, like, what was his work about? I think it's weird because--"

Miles just waved a hand, no longer meeting her gaze. "I would suggest you start with your own academic research. I'm curious to see what you find."

Rebecca frowned. "Okay," she concluded, and after a brief goodbye, she turned to hike up the stairs out of the auditorium. 

***

By the time Rebecca reached her Intro to Poly Sci class, Professor Francis had already started. She could have swore he shot her a quick glare, a spotlight of pinpoint accuracy on her before continuing the lesson. Luckily, Rita was sitting in the back row, ready to move her backpack to free up the seat she had been saving for her friend. 

"Thanks," Rebecca whispered gratefully, catching her breath as she sat down. "You wouldn't BELIEVE my art history professor," she continued, taking out her materials. "He's always like, 'sure, I'll answer all your questions' but I ask him this one thing about my paper and he basically told me to fuck off."

"That's lame--"

"Quiet in the back, please? I'm sure you can continue your conversations, interesting as they are, outside of class time."

The two of them were silent, attention drawn by the professor, who immediately returned to his explanation of the events that led up to the Bolshevik revolution. 

By the time the lecture was finished, Rebecca clicked her pen closed over several pages of new notes, typical for an hour in Francis' class. She poked Rita in the shoulder.

"Hm...what?" she answered groggily, seeming to just be waking up from a nap. "Is class over?"

The two of them stepped out of the quad. The ground was a flutter of autumn leaves on green grass, the trees nearly bare, sun shining through them onto the sleepy American college town. The air was beginning to chill. Rita pulled the long sleeves of her flannel over her hands to keep warm. 

"But, like, I don't see what the point is if we're just going to turn it in on Monday," continued Rebecca, who had been talking about one of the assignments for Francis' class. "Hey, do you want to get pizza and take it back to the dorm?"

"Huh?" answered Rita. "Yeah, sure."

After a trip to the dining hall, they returned to the girls' freshman dorm. 

"Professor Francis is cute, isn't he?" remarked Rebecca from the floor of Rita's dorm room, scrolling Facebook on her laptop. 

Rita looked up from her sketchbook and turned down Drake, spinning in her desk chair towards her friend. "Are you stalking him?"

"No!" Rebecca defended with a grin. "And besides, he's not on Facebook. Which is weird, he's gotta be like, 30. Maybe younger. You think he's cute, right?"

"Yeah," Rita answered without question. 

"It's his accent," continued Rebecca. "Those British accents really do it for me." Looking at her computer screen, she gave a harsh laugh. "My art history professor has a Facebook, although there's pretty much nothing on it. It says he's married?"

"I think he's gay," said Rita. "Francis, I mean. I think he mentioned in class that he has a husband."

"Really?" Rebecca lifted an eyebrow. "I thought I was the one who pays attention in class, but I guess I missed that. Ugh, such a shame!"

Rita nodded thoughtfully. "I think it was on the first day."

"I was probably too busy staring at his pretty golden waves," replied Rebecca, clutching the sides of her face in a dramatic, wistful gesture. Rita laughed at that. "Anyway, I have to look up this artist for my paper now."

Rita said nothing, knowing her friend as the only undergrad in a square mile radius who would start homework on a Friday. She just returned to her drawing. She had taken to drawing a portrait of a girl around her age, something she tended to draw over and over again. It wasn't long before Rebecca called her attention again. 

"Hey, come look at this!" 

Rita crawled to sit onto the floor next to her, eyebrows raised at the sight on the computer screen. 

It was a photocopy of an old newspaper from the late 1800s. A bold headline read "London Dock Workers Strike Over Wages, Port Stagnates," and even in the poor quality black and white, the man in the center of the cover photo was unmistakably familiar. 

"Is that Francis?" said Rita, blinking at the uncanny resemblance. The man was standing among a row of dock workers, the same righteous posture he always carried.

"Yeah!" replied Rebecca. "I was just looking up more information on this artist." 

She moved the cursor to the article in a smaller column to the side, below the fold: "Artist Grantaire invites American 'ashcan' painters to exhibit work in London gallery." 

Rita had heard that name before. It was years ago, when she heard mention of him on an art forum thread. She was a fan of his work, had used some of his paintings as reference. 

No picture was provided for the article. She looked back at the other photo.

"Does it give a name?" asked Rita, squinting at the caption for the dock workers. "Nope. That's so weird."

"I know, right?" said Rebecca, her eyes lit up. She took back her laptop and opened a new email. "I'm going to send this to him."

"Really?" asked Rita, standing up and returning to her chair. "Francis doesn't seem like the kind of professor who likes jokes." 

"But he's always talking about strikes and stuff in class," replied Rebecca, already typing away. "I can't not send it. It's perfect."

As she continued to send the email, Rita flipped open her sketchbook, by random occurrence to a page where the phrase "R+R" was written over and over. She quietly turned to a blank page to start sketching again.

***  
The sky was dark, a few low crickets chirping outside a craftsman bungalow in a neighborhood not too far from the university. Professor Miles finished brushing his teeth and turned off the bathroom light as he stepped into the master bedroom, which was lit by the warm glow of a bedside lamp. He slid into bed, snaking his arms around his husband, who was still sitting up, a laptop resting on top of the quilt. 

"Can't you give it a rest for the night, darling?" Miles murmured over his shoulder. "You have the rest of the weekend, after all."

"I just want to finalise some lesson plans for next semester," replied Francis, who closed his laptop and turned to greet his husband with a quick kiss. A gentle smile remained etched on his lips. "How was your day?"

"It was good," replied Miles, yawning and stretching his arms to rest on the headboard. "Actually, something strange happened. One of my students wants to write about me for her essay."

"Is that so?" Francis gave an amused chuckle. "How did that happen?"

"No idea," answered Miles. "Some very bad luck on my part. So how is Rita doing these days?"

The other professor's expression changed to something more grave. "I'm worried about her. She only turns in half the homework--and, speaking of which, I gave her an extended deadline which she was supposed to turn in by 6pm."

Francis opened his laptop again to check his email, unbothered by Miles making another cloying attachment to his arm, nuzzling his head into his shoulder. 

"Look at this."

Miles lifted his head, slowly opening his eyes to the photo. He squinted. "Is that you?"

"Yes, R, that was from the papers after the dock strike. The first one, anyway. A student from my class sent me this."

"Rebecca?" Miles said in astonishment after reading the email signature. "She's the same student from my Art 201 class, the one who chose me for her report." He frowned. "And she thinks she's recognized you from that grainy little thing?"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "That's true, it would be easy to deny it."

"I doubt even if we told her the truth that she would believe it." Miles laughed. "Imagine, Enj, what if we invited her over for dinner, told her the whole story from start to finish. She would think it was an elaborate ruse."

"I don't know about that," said Francis. "Kids are smart, they haven't yet become entrenched in their own biases."

"What, as you have?" 

Francis scowled, although his husband's grin was infectious. He was quiet when he spoke again. "I believe her and Rita are friends. They always sit next to each other."

"That's the class with Rita?" remarked Miles with mild surprise. "We have to do it, then. We'll invite both of them over."

Francis lifted a sage eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes."

"I didn't think you were serious."

"I wasn't, but I am now."

After another skeptical silence on the part of Francis, Miles added, "What's the harm, darling? It is as I said, either they believe it all to be a joke, or else, if anything it will be interesting. What do you think?"

Francis stared back at him in his usual reserved, judgmental matter. "Fine. But only because I want Rita to know the truth, and this seems like as good a way as any to tell her."

A warm smile bloomed on Miles' face. "Lovely. I'll leave you to make the plans." And with that, he slunk down on the pillow, closing his eyes for sleep, one hand still clasped around Francis' elbow as he typed the response, " _Come see me after class_."

***

The sky was a deep orange as the two girls walked along the quiet suburban street one Wednesday evening. 

"Can you believe this?" remarked Rebecca, her voice filled with excitement. "The hottest professor on campus has invited US for dinner?"

"Yeah," Rita answered meekly. She remembered the two of them going up to Francis at the end of class, to be met with an invitation for a nice dinner at his home. She didn't point out how her friend's demeanor seemed to lessen when Francis mentioned his husband would be there. 

When they reached the address, they climbed the front porch steps and rang the doorbell. Rita absentmindedly fiddled with the chain of the porch swing as they waited, her anxiety causing it to swing gently. 

"Hello!" 

Rita looked up. Standing on the interior of the screen door was the strangest version of her professor she had ever seen, wearing a sweatshirt instead of his usual sport coat and button up, and was that a smile on his face? Was he being...welcoming and down to earth? It made her feel better about the fact that the extent to which she had dressed up for this thing was switching her sweatpants out for a pair of jeans. Rebecca, on the other hand, was certainly going to be feeling overdressed in her silky cocktail dress and stilettos. 

"Hi!" Rebecca's voice rang back. "Thanks for inviting us!"

"I'm glad you made it," replied Francis, holding the door open for them. "Miles is almost finished with dinner."

"Miles?" Rebecca, leaning down to remove her heels as soon as she was inside. "Is that--"

"Yes, I believe you're already acquainted," said Francis. "Your art history professor. I can take that," he said, precisely one millisecond after Rita had begun to remove her jacket. 

"Thanks," she replied kindly. Looking about the room, the house looked cozy, with no shortage of books, and a wide variety of art installations featuring in every nook and cranny.

The three of them moved into the kitchen, where stood a man of similar age with dark brown curls and what looked to be a hand-knit green sweater. He looked up at them, pausing to rinse his hands off in the sink and shake them dry. 

"Hello!" he called, his voice radiating warmth. "Rebecca, good to see you."

She hesitated before responding, "You too, Professor."

Francis stepped to the side of Rita, moving to place a hand on the man's arm. "Rita, let me introduce you to my husband, Miles."

The man smiled as he shook her hand. 

"Nice to meet you," Rita said out of politeness.

"You as well," he answered. "Can I get you anything to drink? Some water?"

"I'll have a glass of chardonnay, if you have it," Rebecca answered rather quickly. 

Miles looked as though he was considering this option, but Rita saw Francis pass him a subtle head-shake. "If you'd like, I can brew some coffee."

Rebecca blinked. "Water is fine."

"I'll take some coffee," said Rita, and Miles gave her a nod. 

After Francis handed Rebecca a glass of water, Miles motioned for him to come close, and they had a hushed exchange. Rita was standing far enough away that she couldn't hear all of it, but she could swear she made out something to the effect of, " _...don't remember how long it takes to cook. It's been twenty years since I last.._."

Francis followed him with a concerned expression, and finally nodded, returning to the girls. "Looks like dinner might be a few more minutes. Why don't we sit down in the living room for a moment."

"Great," Rebecca said, sounding a little bit relieved. She followed Francis into the other room, but Rita stayed behind. 

"Do you need any help?" she asked. 

Miles looked up, his pale skin a bit flustered. "Oh! No, well, since you offered, actually, if you could help me with these carrots."

She set on peeling a bunch of carrots, and when she saw that he was having trouble getting the coffee machine to work, she helped him with that. 

"Thanks," he replied, once it was successfully dripping out the delicious aroma of espresso. "We're British; we usually have tea around here."

"Nice," she said. "Yeah, I used to work as a barista, so it's not a big deal." She paused at the sound Rebecca's awkward, a-little-too-loud laughter echoing in from the other room. Without looking up, she returned to chopping vegetables. 

Miles returned to the stove, where he was frying some chicken and chopped onions in a pan. She noticed when he opened the pantry, it was nearly empty. 

"Where did you learn to cook?" he asked, sounding cordial. 

"My dad, mostly. Well, before my parents got divorced. I don't see him much anymore."

Miles was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm not," said Rita. "He was kind of an asshole." 

She glanced up to see Miles' gaze was still towards her, his face marked with a look of concern. She glanced away, knowing she needed to change topics. 

"Hey," she said, her eyes catching on a framed sketch, almost hidden in a corner by the back door. She stepped towards it. "This is cool. Who did this?"

"Oh," said Miles. His hands were clasped behind his back in a humble manner. "I did that."

"It's really good!" she exclaimed, examining the details. A young-ish man stood in shorts and a tight T-shirt and sunglasses, resting a sign over his back that said, "We're here, we're queer, we hate the fucking president." She smiled. "This is great. Is that--" her eyes widened at the realization. "That's Francis."

Miles walked up to study the drawing, laughing with a satisfied expression. "Yes it is." 

Rita breathed out a laugh, feeling more at ease. Seeing her most feared professor in booty-short length cutoffs was definitely becoming a highlight of the evening. "I draw a little bit, but I'm nowhere near this good."

"You draw?" Miles' eyes lit up suddenly, which suprised her. "What do you draw?" 

"Yeah, it's mostly portraits..." She huffed a sigh. "Shit, I don't think I brought my sketchbook with me."

The professor gave a kind smile. "Maybe next time. I'd like to see your work if you get the chance."

"Okay," she answered, entirely unsure why someone of his caliber would care about her hobby. "Like I said, I'm not that good. Anatomy, and all that. I don't think I could ever just draw something like that without a reference."

"Oh, me either," replied Miles. "I've been drawing for a long time, and let me tell you, I'd always choose drawing on a reference over freehand. He posed for that."

Rita's eyes widened. "Professor Francis posed for that?" She couldn't help but laugh. 

Miles gave a chuckle. "He did, indeed."

"How?"

Miles grinned at her, a certain glimmer in his eye. "Artist's secret: it's much easer to get someone to pose for you when you're married."

Rita laughed. Glancing at the portrait once more, she spied a date scribbled in the corner read '91. Francis wasn't that old, was he? If he was in his early thirties, now, well, he couldn't have been, because--

"Oh! I think the chicken's about to burn," said Miles, hurrying back to the stove. 

Dinner was ready in about a half hour, and an amazing smell of curry filled the air. Rita found it rather remarkable how just minutes before, Miles had struggled to cut a carrot, and now he was adding an impressive list of spices in pinches, making his own curry from memory. A calico cat, whose name she soon found out was named Parsnip, wandered in and jumped onto a kitchen chair, allowing her to pet it. Miles commented that she was usually too shy to approach guests. Rita sat at the breakfast nook, petting Parsnip with one hand and nursing a warm mug of coffee in the other. 

Everything about it felt strange to Rita, but the strangest thing was that none of it felt strange at all, that somehow in this house she had never been to, getting to know these people for the first time, she felt a strange sense of belonging. 

"Hey, R?"

Rita looked up to see Francis had entered the room, looking past her. She turned her neck to see Miles answer him. 

"Yes, darling?"

"I meant to set the table, but do you remember where we keep the napkins?"

She watched them talk for a minute, then leave the room to check a cabinet out in the hallway. Parsnip jumped up before she saw that Rebecca came in, and slid into the chair across from her. 

"You wouldn't _believe_ it," she said, leaning in, her tone hushed. "I've been trying to flirt with Francis all evening, and he hasn't said or noticed a thing."

Rita lifted an eyebrow. "It's probably because he's gay."

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "You're no help. You're supposed to be my friend, you're supposed to be helping me!"

The other girl just sipped her coffee. She had no idea how to respond, so she chose to just stay quiet, finally adding a delayed, "I'm sorry." She felt bad, too. Neither of them said anything as Miles returned, gathering some silverware from the drawer and disappearing into the dining room. 

The four of them gathered plates and served themselves in the kitchen, moving to the dining room to sit down. Rita couldn't wait to dig in, and soon found it tasted as delicious as it smelled. 

"So, as for you ladies," said Miles, wiping his mouth on a napkin. "How are classes going?"

"Great!" answered Rebecca, back to her chipper self. 

"Great," answered Rita, much less sure of herself. 

"That's good," Miles responded. "Are you--"

"R," Francis gently interrupted, tugging on his arm. "We should tell them why they're here."

"Right." He glanced down at his half finished plate, then up at the two guests, who were staring back at him as though he were about to confess to murder. Hesitantly, he turned to Francis, who nodded. 

"Rita," Francis began, his voice taking on a more grave tone. "We know your mother. In fact, we know her father. It all goes back to your great, great, great grandmother Cosette."

"What do you mean," interjected Rebecca, "like you went and looked up her family tree?"

"No," replied Francis.

"Rebecca," explained Miles, "that photograph you sent? That was a real photograph of Francis, I mean Enjolras, which used to be his name. And my name's not Miles, or it didn't used to be. It was Grantaire."

Rebecca folded her arms. "Grantaire? Like Horace Grantaire, the artist?"

Miles winced. 

"He always hated his first name," Francis remarked, a small smile on the corner of his lips. "I wouldn't suggest you say it again."

"But how can you be the artist Grantaire," reasoned Rebecca, "when he lived, like, well past a century ago?"

"It's complicated," said Miles. "I can't really go into detail about it, but the most I can say is we've both died and come back to life. We're undead, in a sense."

Francis nodded before chiming in. "We know Cosette because she was Grantaire's art dealer. He was engaged to her at one point."

Miles nodded. Meanwhile, Rita just sat there, mouth hung open slightly. The way Francis said "Grantaire," as though he were not just speaking of the artist Grantaire, but referring to someone sitting there in the room. 

"You've got to be kidding me," said Rebecca. "You're trying to tell us you're like some sort of vampire, like in twilight?"

"We're not vampires," countered Francis, but Miles just laughed. 

"Yes," he concluded. "I suppose we are kind of like that."

"Like what?" Francis asked him, vaguely confused. "Vampires?"

"The book Twilight?" answered Miles. When his husband showed no recognition he grinned. "Right. It's about these kids who are vampires, and one of them is over a hundred years old, I believe, and he falls in love with a human girl, but he looks like a teenager, so they're both in high school. It's a whole series."

Francis did not look impressed. 

"It's a bunch of movies, too," Rebecca added helpfully. 

"Oh, Enjolras can't see movies," replied Miles. "They give him vertigo. He hasn't been to the movies since 1935."

"That's not true," remarked Francis. "You took me to see the first Star Wars. Back in '77?"

"Oh, yeah, that's right...did I? I'm sorry, love."

Francis shook his head. "I had to keep my eyes closed most of the time. I will say that it sounded quite exciting."

Miles gave him a wistful, empathetic expression, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. Nevermind the two girls who were completely at a loss for how to make sense of the situation. Rebecca let out a nervous laugh, and Rita retained her silent facade, eyes very deer-in-headlights. 

Francis turned to Rita. "I know you must have questions. Don't be shy, we can answer any concerns you might have."

"How about this," interjected Rebecca. "If you're really Grantaire, say something only he would know."

Miles gave a laugh. "I told you to do your own research, not to use me as a reference. No primary sources."

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "The ashcan artists, then. Did you really meet with them?"

"Yes," answered Miles. "Henri was a real character."

Rebecca didn't look convinced. "You're just making that up."

Miles just shrugged.

"Let's assume what you say is true," said Rebecca, continuing her doubtful expression. "Why did you pick now to tell us? Does anyone else know?"

"Your mum," said Francis, referring to Rita. 

Miles nodded. "She didn't think you were ready to know. But you're an adult now, it just happens to be rather fortunate that you're attending the school where we both teach."

"What do you mean, 'she didn't think I was ready'?" asked Rita, her voice slowly growing to a regular speaking volume. 

"I suppose it is a lot to tell someone." Miles pursed his lips. "Although, to be honest, she's a bit homophobic. I think she didn't want you to meet us for that reason."

Rita said nothing at that.

"Okay," said Rebecca, sounding vaguely in the direction of a concession. "So I guess, like, the Supreme Court decision a few years ago must have been exciting for you, you could finally get married?"

"Well, yes," said Francis, "But we had long been married before that. Just not legally."

Rebecca frowned. "Then how?"

Francis wasted no time in his explanation. "Gay people have been around as long as people have been. It's the popular public opinion that has changed."

"We're coming up on our anniversary again, darling," said Miles, reaching out to brush a loose hair off of Francis' shoulder. "On Christmas. How many years will it be?"

Francis glanced up at him, and Rita noted how his gazed softened to a more tender expression, although it would be easy to miss. "I believe we're nearly one hundred and fifty."

"Is that right?" He stared at his husband with an affectionate gaze. "Who could have foretold, nearly one and a half centuries. It feels like just yesterday that I met you on the highway."

Francis gave an amused laugh. "Every year you tell me that, R."

"Because it's true."

"Aw," said Rebecca, although Rita could sense something insincere about it.

Rita settled back into her chair. That name--R. She knew she had seen that before. The way Grantaire had signed his paintings, with a capital R. Come to think of it, the drawing by the back door carried the same signature. It couldn't be--this had to be made up.

Rebecca must have been thinking the same, because her chair slid back and she stood up, smoothing the hem of her dress. "Well, this has been an interesting night. Thanks for dinner, but I think I'm ready to go home."

Rita followed suit and stood up. "Yeah, thanks for dinner," she added. She meant it. 

"Would you like a ride home?" Miles offered them. "It's a bit cold out."

"No," said Rebecca, flashing an apologetic smile. "It's not that far."

Rita remembered Rebecca complaining about her feet hurting in her heels on the way over, but decided not to bring it up. "Yeah," she agreed. "We'll be fine. Thanks though."

They bid an awkward and hasty goodbye to the professors, and as they were walking home, Rebecca kept a quick pace in her stilettos. 

"Do you believe any of that back there?" Rita wondered aloud.

"Of course not," responded Rebecca. Her voice was shivering, and she clutched at the elbows of her jacket. "World's biggest fucking joke they just played on us. Who do they think we are?"

"I don't know," said Rita. "You don't think it's weird that he could answer your questions about being an artist?"

"Rita," Rebecca said in a pointed tone. "He's an art history professor. Of course he knows everything about that artist. And of course he chose to pretend to be the one artist that I couldn't find pictures of online."

"Then how do they know my mom?"

"I don't know," retorted Rebecca, waving a hand. "Literally any way they could know her. Did you know about your great great..whatever great grandma? For all we know, they could have been bullshitting that, too."

Rita thought about it. She didn't know about her grandfather, but even if they knew her name, surely they could have looked that up in public records. "Yeah."

"'Your mom just didn't tell you about us'," said Rebecca in a mocking tone. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is that a legit reason for your mom to never have told you about them?"

Rita's eyes traced the cracks in the pavement as they walked. It was becoming more and more apparent that nothing that they claimed could really be proved true.

"I guess not."

***

The week progressed. At Francis' class on Friday, she and Rebecca stayed in the back, quickly leaving as soon as class was over. Francis definitely looked up at them, waved even, but Rita just turned away and kept walking, following after her friend.

Somehow, though, she had lost her. Even at the dining hall, where they usually ate, she was nowhere to be found. Rita returned to her dorm room, eating in solitude, working on another sketch.

A hand tapped her on the shoulder. "Hey."

She turned around to see her roommate standing over her, and she was already dreading the conversation. 

Rita pulled back her headphones. "Yeah, Olivia?"

"Andrew's going to come over later. Do you think you could...?"

Rita sighed. "Yeah, like, do you know what time?"

"I don't know yet. Later."

Rita exhaled, sitting back in her chair. "Yeah, sure. Just let me know."

Her roommate gave an apologetic smile. "Thanks. He'll definitely be out by midnight."

Rita nodded. She watched her roommate leave, and sighed a second time. _Fuck_. Now she had to make plans.

Her phone buzzed, and her eyes lit up until she saw it was her mom. "Some mail came for you. Do you want me to forward it?"

She looked at the photo her mom had sent, definitely junk mail, which seemed to keep coming ever since that _one_ time she went to see that ballet in the city with some friends. She was about to set her phone down, but then the thought crossed her mind. 

"Hey," she wrote, "do you know a Dr. Francis or a Dr. Miles?"

Only a few seconds later, and she saw her mom was writing something back: "Why? How did you hear about them?"

"They both teach at my school." 

Her mom seemed excited by that, quickly texting something. The three dots appeared for awhile, until she finally sent. "They did some business with grandpa. Did you talk to them?"

"No." Somehow, she knew better than to tell the truth. 

Three more dots. "The university website says Francis is a principle lecturer for the Political Science department. He's not your teacher, is he?"

"No." Was that too suspicious? "Rebecca has Miles for art history. I haven't talked to them, though."

"Good. I would be careful not to talk to them anymore."

Rita made a face. _What the fuck?_ Before she could even think of how to respond to that, she heard a knock on the door. She felt relieved when she opened it to see Rebecca.

"Guess what we're doing tonight," said her friend, a smug grin on her face. 

"Friday night homework?" answered Rita, back to her usual dry sense of humor. 

Rebecca didn't even stop to consider the option. "I was just talking to some guys. Hot guys. _Seniors_ , Rita. And they just so happen to be having a party at their house off campus. We have to go!"

"Okay," her friend answered, sounding mildly enthused. 

Rebecca grabbed her arm. "Come on! We're going. I'll give you twenty minutes to get ready, and then meet me at my room."

Rita rolled her eyes with a grin. "Fine, I guess we can--"

"Okay, great!" Rebecca answered, and she had already began walking back down the hall.

It took no less than five minutes for Rita to get prepared, throwing on a nicer shirt, jeans. Some eyeliner. She looked around the room, deciding to grab her sketchbook, which just barely fit into her coat pocket. When she arrived at Rebecca's room and knocked, her friend opened the door looking stunning in a one-shoulder black dress, her hair pulled to one side, showcasing earrings that dangled from her ears in delicate chains. Her expression faded when she saw Rita, though. 

"Don't tell me that's what you're wearing," she remarked. Before Rita could answer, she took her arm. "Don't worry. We'll find something you can borrow. And girl, remind me, we've GOT to go to Nordstrom's sometime." 

Rebecca found a few options for her to wear, and Rita picked a dress she thought wouldn't be too uncomfortable. Rebecca helped style her hair so that it fell in smooth waves, and when they looked in the mirror, Rita couldn't say how she felt about herself, but she thought together, they looked nice. Rebecca put on a coat, and they headed out. 

***

"I think it's just up the street," said Rebecca. They stopped underneath a streetlight on the dark street while she pulled out her phone to check the address. Rita's legs were shivering in the cold, and she zipped up her coat, burrowing her face into the collar. 

"Yeah, it's this way," Rebecca confirmed, and they kept walking. 

The house was easy to spot once they reached it. A dull colored light seeped out through the closed curtains, and the distant sound of voices and low music could be heard. Unlocking a low chain link fence, they entered and walked up to the front door, and Rebecca knocked. Rita could smell weed coming from inside the house. 

A minute passed, and Rebecca knocked again, and it was less than a second until a guy their age, maybe a couple years older answered. 

"Hey, you made it!" he said, holding his arms out. Rebecca gave him a hug. He immediately looked to Rita, who was standing there awkwardly in the front room of the house, trying to put her hands in her dress pockets and failing because there was none. _Why the hell didn't I pick the one with pockets?!_

"Hey," he said. "What's your name?"

"This is my friend Rita," Rebecca introduced her (thank god). 

"Nice to meet you, Rita," he said, with a smooth grin which made her the slightest bit uncomfortable. "I'm Dan. Can I get you something to drink? We have some beers."

"I'm fine," she answered, her voice shaking slightly. 

Rebecca put a hand on her arm. "I'll have one," she said. 

Rita blinked, reconsidering her options. "Actually, I'll have one, too."

Dan grinned. "Alright, two beers coming right up."

In the next room, she could hear a song playing, one she recognised from the radio.

***

_"Rita, what the fuck?!"_

"I'm sorry!"

It was almost midnight when Rita stepped out of the house again. She wiped her eyes, eyeliner smudging off on her hand along with her tears. Struggling to pull on the sleeves of her coat, she began walking. She knew she had to go somewhere, anywhere but here. The dorm? Wait, no, Andrew was staying over. University dorm policy was that guests had to be out by 2am, and knowing her roommate, they were probably going to be there for awhile. She kept walking, wandering aimlessly through the suburb.

The night was quiet, peaceful. There was a chill, but it wasn't too cold. She was starting to get lost, but she didn't care. She just kept walking, her tears dissipating into the night air. 

Some of the houses began to look familiar. It took her a minute before she realised she was nearing Miles and Francis' house. She turned down a street with a familiar-sounding name, and proved her senses true, as she soon stood outside their humble single-story home. 

Even after everything had had happened on Wednesday night...Really? Was she _really_ considering knocking? For what, to bother them in the middle of the night? She tossed aside the ridiculous notion and would have kept walking if it wouldn't for the sudden sound of the front door creaking open. Rita froze. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

The sidewalk was a reasonable distance from the porch, and whoever it was didn't notice her as they turned on the porch light and continued about their business. 

It was Miles, she saw, dressed in only a t-shirt and shorts, carrying a pitcher to water the plants. She would have laughed, if it weren't for the circumstances. She almost didn't notice that he was no longer watering the plants, but staring back at her.

He cupped a hand over his eyes, squinting in the porch light. "Rita?"

She thought about running, fuck, that would have probably made more sense. Instead she wordlessly walked up the steps and sat down on the porch swing. Tears had already begun to make their way down her cheeks again.

Miles was immediately filled with concerned. He set down the pitcher and cautiously sat beside her, leaving reasonable distance between them. "What's the matter?"

She stared down at her feet, some dirt-specked ballet flats. He left her a silence long enough for her to calm down a little, at which point she asked, of all things, "Why..." (her voice broke) "why are you out here so late?"

"Oh." He seemed slightly relieved. "I forgot to water the plants, and I don't want Enj to--"

"I'm gay."

Miles was silent.

Rita felt her eyes beginning to well up again. She buried her head in her hands. "Please don't tell my mom."

"What?" He kind of...laughed? "I'm not going to tell your mum. No, that's--that's great."

She looked up at him. Her thoughts flashed back to that strange text her mom had sent, it made them sound so intimidating. But his graying hair was a mussy slept-in bird's nest, his t-shirt sporting a faded picture of the Mona Lisa wearing a Groucho Marx glasses, feet clad in neon flipflops. It was increasingly difficult to take him seriously. Until she saw his eyes, which made her jump.

He jumped, too. "What! Are you alright?"

"You-your eyes," she said. Somehow before she hadn't noticed they were a strange dark color tinged with red in the irises.

"Oh," he replied. "Sorry about that. I normally wear colored contacts to hide them, or with thick enough glasses, people don't really notice." His answer didn't really address the question.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked. 

"I don't really get cold," he replied quietly. His look was drifting towards concern again. "Did you walk all the way here?"

Rita rubbed her eye. Her makeup must have looked a mess by now, as she could see the streaks coming off on her hand. "No. I mean yes, but I didn't mean to. I was coming home from a party."

"I see," he replied. "I was about to tell you you're at the wrong address for that."

She laughed somehow, still wiping her left eye dry with one hand. 

Miles leaned back on the porch swing, and the swaying calmed her a little. "So, you're gay," he said. 

"Yeah," she said, and somehow it felt more comfortable to say. "I guess I am." A panic flashed in her eyes, and she added quickly. "Sorry, about earlier. It's just, I mean, you probably don't remember what it was like before you came out to your parents."

He tilted his head in consideration. "I do, actually. Granted, you could say it was a different time. But believe me when I say I know your mum, and I would never tell her unless you wanted me to."

Rita looked up. "Oh my god! You won't, will you?"

He matched her concern. "No! Definitely not."

"Okay." 

She sat there for another minute, waiting for her breathing to return to a normal pace. Miles waited patiently beside her.

Rita kicked idly at the ground. "It's because of her I had to go to a Catholic school. Well, I wanted to go to Seattle but we couldn't afford it."

Miles nodded. "I know it's hard."

"Yeah." She slipped her hands into her pockets. Instantly, her hand collided with the bulky object crammed inside. "Oh," she said, pulling out the sketchbook. "I forgot I had this. So dumb, I brought a sketchbook to a party, like I thought I was going to be bored."

"That's not dumb," said Miles. "I'm pretty sure I've seen Enj--I mean Francis bring a book to a party a couple of times, actually."

Rita managed a couple laughs, her nose still stuffed up from earlier. "No, that's definitely not cool, like at all."

Miles laughed along with her. "I suppose you're right."

Rita took a deep breath, glancing out at the quiet street. She knew this was the exact opposite of what her mom would want her to be doing right now, and that felt like a small victory. "Here," she said, handing over the sketchbook. "You said you wanted to see my stuff."

"Really?" he looked so surprised, careful to take it from her as though she had asked him to hold the Magna Carta. He flipped it open, and the first page was a few smaller sketches, people she had drawn when she was bored in class, a bird she saw out the window. The next was a portrait of a girl drawn in profile. He paused, studying it carefully. "This is good. I can tell you put a lot of effort into these."

Rita didn't know what she had been expecting, perhaps a critique. But a compliment? She was about to point out how the shading didn't turn out how she wanted, but just then, he turned the page, revealing the one she had covered in "R+R"s. He promptly shut it. 

"I don't think I was meant to see that page," he said quietly. 

"It's not you!" she blurt out, breaking the silence before it could persist. 

"I know," he replied, and she felt relieved. "There's only one person who still calls me that. But I might have a guess as to who you meant."

"I kissed her."

Rita was surprised at her own outburst, but at the same time, she had a desperate need to be heard. To stop hiding in the closet. "It was really dumb," she explained. "Fuck. I was high off of like, one puff of one joint that I coughed up after, and like half a beer, which I shouldn't have even had half of, because it tasted awful..."

He was laughing. Miles should have been giving her a scolding about how she was being irresponsible, but instead, he was laughing it off like a good-natured joke. 

"Obviously, like, she didn't take it very well," she continued. "I had to get out of there. I didn't know what else to do. I can't go back to the dorm right now."

Miles listened intently. His face fell. "You're not roommates with her, are you?"

Rita exhaled sharply. "No."

"Thank god," he said. They shared a look of mutual relief.

"No, she doesn't," Rita answered thankfully. "I feel bad, though. She was really drunk, and I guess I just left her there. Fuck," she breathed, burying her head in her hands. "I have to go back there. Or at least text her. And I _really_ don't want to do either of those things."

"Hang on," said Miles in a moment of sage wisdom. "Is there anyone else you know who can check up on her?"

Rita thought for a moment. "I think I know her roommate's number. She went to high school with us. I could text and ask if she made it home?"

"That's good," replied Miles. "If not, we can drive over and check on her."

Rita lifted her head. "Really? You'd do that?" Her voice grew smaller. "I don't know why you're being so nice to me."

"Rita, listen," he said, his voice becoming clearer. "Francis and I may have kept our distance before on account of your mum, but you're an adult now, and you can choose your own associations. As far as I'm concerned, we're family."

She looked up at him, taking in his sincerity. Rita began to cry again. Everything he and Francis said the night earlier, she had no idea if any of it was true. But right now, someone was sitting here, listening to her, genuinely caring about her. It was overwhelming. 

He put a hand on her shoulder, still awkwardly sitting beside her. When he asked if he could give her a hug, she nodded, gratefully accepting it. He felt strangely cold, and he apologised something about being dead, but she didn't care. 

"Isn't Francis going to be mad at me," she said, wiping away another tear. "I think I'm failing his class. I forgot to do the homework again."

"Of course not," Miles replied in a sympathetic voice. "Don't worry, I'll talk to him--"

Just then, as if on cue for a comical sitcom entrance, the screen door opened, and Francis was standing there underneath the porch light dressed in sweats, tiredly rubbing the side of his face. "What's going on out here?"

Miles, however, didn't miss a beat, turning towards him to say, "Darling, can't you give Rita another extension on the homework? It's only her first semester. She's still getting used to being away from home."

Francis glanced to her for a moment, and then pursed his lips. "Alright. But you need to start coming to class awake and ready to learn, and turn in ALL of the homework, including the essay that's due Monday."

"Really?" said Rita. She stood up, throwing her arms around him. "Thank you so much!"

In a delayed response, he clapped his hand on her back. Miles gave a couple laughs. 

She felt something buzz in her pocket. Pausing to take out her phone, she read the text message. "It looks like Rebecca's still at the party. Her roommate says she hasn't come home yet."

Miles stood up. "Alright, then, let me get some proper shoes on, and let's go."

He disappeared into the house and returned a few minute later in what she would have considered a more normal outfit: jeans, sneakers, and a wool coat. Francis tossed him some keys, and just as he and Rita were sitting in the SUV parked in the driveway, he switched off the ignition and called for Francis to come back.

"Yes?" he said, leaning on the car exterior where Miles had the window rolled down. 

"Darling, I can't for the death of me figure out how to drive your car. For starters, where's the clutch?"

Francis just looked to him with a calm expression. "It's an automatic transmission."

Miles looked as though he had been slapped in the face. "Oh, _that's_ what that is," he said in realisation. "I suppose it's been awhile since I've driven a car." 

"I can drive," said Francis. "Rita, do you need me to take you back to your dorm?"

"No! Um," she wasn't sure how to explain it. 

"You know what," said Miles, "Why don't you stay here. We can watch a movie or something, take your mind off of everything. Francis can pick up Rebecca and take her home."

Rita found her voice was shaking when she spoke again. "Are you sure?"

Francis nodded. "What's the address?"

She saw them looking back at her so sincerely. She dug her phone out of her phone out of her pocket. "I think I have it."

***

Rita awoke to the smell of breakfast wafting in from the other room. As she stirred, Parsnip gave a chirpy "Mrr!" and jumped off the couch from where she had been nestled next to Rita's legs, padding her way across the floor into the kitchen. Rita clutched at the corners of a thick, warm quilt, which Miles must have laid over her in the middle of the night after she had fallen asleep with the TV on. The quilt had patches of floral prints and little pink heart cutouts, and it remided her of the quilts her grandma made. Then, she realised it probably was one. She was still wearing the sweater Miles had lent her, a cream-colored pullover, after he apologised that "We don't usually keep the thermostat on." They must have turned it on, because the house was warmer now. 

Rita reached for her phone, checking texts from the night before. None from Rebecca, thankfully. Rebecca's roommate had texted her about Rebecca getting home okay. Before that, she had sent a text to her own roommate--saying she wouldn't be coming home because she was "staying over at some relatives.'" 

She brushed a hair behind her ear. It felt strange to think of everything that happened the night before. Finally, she stood up and entered the kitchen.

"Oh! Good morning," said Miles, looking up from the stove with a warm smile. "You're just in time; I've made pancakes."

She meant to say good morning back, but instead, all she could manage was a yawn. 

Miles seemed amused by her answer. "I'll put some coffee on, how's that?"

Rita blinked. "Okay." She sat down at the kitchen table, still processing what has happening. Before she knew it, he was setting a cup of coffee in front of her, and then, a little pitcher of cream and a sugar bowl. 

Francis entered the kitchen, and Miles' eyes lit up upon seeing him, and they shared a quick kiss. 

"Thanks for buying groceries," he said. Francis said nothing, but she thought she saw him give his arm a squeeze. 

Francis moved towards the the kitchen table, sitting across from her, picking up the newspaper which had been lying on it. "Good morning, Rita," he said. "Did you sleep alright? I hope you weren't too cold."

"Umm, yeah, I was fine." She glanced to Miles. "Thanks for the sweater, by the way." She smoothed the hem of the dress underneath it. Rebecca's dress. She tried not to think about that. 

"Of course," said Miles. He lifted another pancake onto the stack that was sitting on a plate by the stove. "Come help yourself."

She did. Miles had out a full spread: bacon and eggs, pancakes with syrup, fresh fruit. "How long have you been in the states?" she asked as she filled up her plate. 

"That's a good question." He turned to Francis, who looked up from behind his newspaper. "Darling, how long has it been?"

"We moved to New York after the Armory show."

"That's right, it has been awhile," replied Miles thoughtfully. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"I'm alright, thanks. Although..." he paused to breathe in the fresh coffee aroma. "Did you make coffee?"

Miles smiled brightly. "I'll bring you some."

A few minutes later, they were all sitting at the table, eating breakfast. Rita dug into her own plate, only just realizing how hungry she was. It was all perfectly cooked, beyond delicious. She couldn't help but remember the couple's brief exchange from earlier, that they had bought groceries just for her.

Miles sat down, carefully cutting away at some pancakes. "Rita," he said, "I think I saw Francis reading Twilight yesterday."

"What?" She couldn't help but smile. "Really?"

Francis glanced at her over his paper. "Yes, and I can't say I'm particularly happy with the messages it's sending young women about what a healthy relationship should look like."

Rita laughed. "I know, the guy is basically a stalker. How far did you get?" 

"I finished it," he said, folding his paper and setting it aside. 

Rita frowned. "You read the whole book? Isn't it like, over a hundred thousand words?"

"No, the series. _Breaking Dawn_ , I believe the last one is called."

Rita's mouth hung open, unsure how to answer.

"Yes," Francis continued, picking up his cup of coffee. "And besides the egregious ethics of someone over a century old dating a teenager, I don't see why he and his fellow vampires would willingly choose to repeat high school for eternity. At least, from what I've heard of the American high school system."

Rita laughed. "Yeah, you couldn't pay me to go back to high school. Actually, me and Rebecca were supposed to room together, but I was a late admit into the program. I'm kind of glad it worked out that we didn't." She huddled her hands around the warm mug of coffee, staring into it, wondering what was going to happen the next time they saw each other.

"By the way," said Francis, "you should know that your friend got home safe last night."

"I know," said Rita. "Her roommate texted me. Um, thanks."

"It was no trouble." He set down his coffee. "I'm sorry to hear you had a falling out."

Her heart sank. She passed Miles a glance. "Oh. So you told him, then."

Miles quickly stepped into the conversation. "That's all that I told him, love, that--"

"That I'm gay," said Rita. It was then that her brain finished his sentence, and she saw both of them staring at her. "Oh," she added, returning to idly pushing a spoon around in her coffee. "Well, I am."

Another silence lingered between them. She tried not to meet their gazes, seeing their ever-growing looks of concern. 

Finally, Francis spoke. "That's wonderful. How is your family taking it? Do they know?"

"No?" she said, rubbing her eyes. "You guys are like the first people I've told. At least, people not on the internet."

Francis and Miles shared a glance, and then Francis turned to her and said, "We should be honoured, then. I think Miles has already told you this, but if there's anything you need, you need only ask."

He reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. She yelped, the feeling of his grip like ice. 

"Sorry, terribly sorry," replied Francis, quickly retracting his hand. "I've overimposed."

Miles laid a hand on his husband's arm. "Darling, she probably felt that your hand is cold."

Rita rubbed at the place where his hand had been. "Y-yeah."

Francis blinked, realising his faux pas. "I do apologise. I hope I didn't spook you."

"It's fine," she replied, glancing down at the table. It was then she noticed it--normally her professor wore long sleeves, but today they were rolled up to his elbows, and she could see his forearms were marred with long scars, what looked like skin sealed shut with some kind of medical adhesive. She met his gaze again, and she could see he had the same strange eye color as Miles', with that peculiar red and black.

"So..." she began, glancing slowly from one professor to the other. "Your names aren't really Miles and Francis."

"Well, names are all arbitrary," replied Miles. "Legally, those are our names. But yes, we used to go by different ones."

"And you go by different names ever since you...died."

"No," said Miles. "We changed names when we moved out here to hide the fact that we've been around for so long. Here, let me show you."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a plastic card and laughed to himself. "I just realised this last night after we went to take the car. I haven't renewed my license since 1989." He slid the card across the table for her to see. 

Francis sent Miles a disapproving glare, and he just shrugged. "What? I never get pulled over."

Rita looked it over. The Miles in the picture looked exactly the same as he did now, despite the thirty year difference. She furrowed her brow. "Your first name is Francis?"

"And his first name is Miles," replied Miles. "We didn't want to take the same last name. That would be confusing."

Rita furrowed her brow. "But you used to be Grantaire."

"Yes. And this is Enjolras." 

Francis nodded. "You were right, Rita. We did die. It was just very long ago."

Rita was silent in contemplation. "How did you die?"

The two of them exchanged another sideways glance. 

"That's another story," said Miles. "One day we'll explain it to you in full, I'm sure."

Rita was silent again, looking down at her half finished pancakes. After a moment, she said, "Can I ask something else?"

They looked to her with full attention. "Yes, love?" said Miles. 

"Do you mind if I come back here and bring my homework?" She looked to Francis. "I just think it will be easier to concentrate, and then if I have questions, I can ask you."

Francis lifted his posture. "I think that's a fantastic idea."

"Okay," she said, feeling relieved, exhaling a smile. "Although I guess I'll have to put off doing laundry again."

"Why don't you bring that as well?" suggested Francis. "I think we were going to run a load."

Rita smiled. "Okay."

"Just give us a call, and we'll pick you up," said Miles. "Or--Francis will."

As they continued eating breakfast, Rita saw as Parsnip returned, jumping onto the seat next to her and purring softly.

***

On Monday, Rita entered the auditorium for her Intro to Poly Sci lecture. She stopped by a table at the front where students were forming a stack of their essays, and she unzipped her backpack to find her finished report. 

Once she handed it in, she headed to her seat, passing by the podium, where Francis was setting up his laptop. He nodded upon seeing her. "Good morning."

She waved quickly, and then moved a few rows back to sit down. 

A minute after lecture started, Rita heard footsteps from the back of the classroom. She turned to spy Rebecca standing at the back row, rifling through her backpack. As soon as they made eye contact, Rita quickly glanced away. She had not saved Rebecca a seat. 

When class was dismissed, Rita packed up her bag and left. As she walked through the quad, she heard a voice call after her.

"Hey! Rita, wait!"

She turned to see Rebecca coming towards her. "Hey," she said, unable to hide her hesitation. 

"Hey," said Rebecca. They stood on the pathway as other students walked around them, and a light breeze drifted through. "Did you do the homework?"

Rita breathed a small relief at the attempt to make ordinary conversation. "Yeah. I was at their house over the weekend. I'm all caught up now."

"At whose house? You mean Miles and Francis?" Rebecca looked surprised. 

"Yeah."

Her friend lifted an eyebrow doubtfully. "After all those weird things they said? Do you really believe them?"

Rita thought for a moment. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a robin landing in one of the trees overhead. "No," she lied. "I just think they're kind of interesting. They've been nice to me."

"Well," answered Rebecca. "Suit yourself."

Rita wondered if she was going to bring up the fact that Francis had brought her home from the party. Then, she wondered if Rebecca remembered at all. 

"There's a rumor that Francis showed up to the party later," said Rebecca. "It was after you left. Apparently he just showed up looking for some girl and took her home."

Rita nodded slowly, not saying anything. 

"Hey," said Rebecca, pulling her aside. Passing period was almost over, and the number of students had thinned. "Do you mind if we don't tell anyone what happened at the party?"

"Yeah," answered Rita. "Sounds good."

"Good," said Rebecca. "I have to go to a club meeting, but I guess like, see you around?"

"Yeah," Rita said again. "See you around, I guess."

They waved goodbye, and then the two girls parted ways, leaving the quad along different paths.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to make another regrettable decision, my tumblr is [@preliminary-gayeties](https://preliminary-gayeties.tumblr.com/)
> 
> On a historical note there was probably NOT that good of a photo in an 1889 London newspaper, they mostly had illustrations back then.


End file.
